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It was a warm morning in the Hatchetfield cemetery, a soft breeze cooling the air. Tombstones littered the field, both old and new. Some were flawless and shiny, the polished stone clearly new, while others looked pitiful; the stone eroded and abandoned with the passage of time. And yet, there they stood. There they all stood. Both decrepit and pristine, standing alike in dignity. In this, they were equal. And as the sun began its ascent for the day, the shadows between tombstones started to wane.
There on a cobbled path through the graveyard, Miss Holloway stood, staring off into the field.
No. Not Holloway. Miss Holliday. She tried to give herself some grace— switching to a new persona always had an adjustment period, after all. And, well, she had only just become Miss Holliday.
She didn’t relish the circumstances of Miss Holloway’s unfortunate end, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She just had to move on. She was Miss Holliday now.
Holliday, Holliday, Holliday, she recited, reminding herself, as she brushed her windblown hair out of her face once more. Her attempts were futile, however, and the wind was relentless. She figured this would happen, though, so she had come prepared. She resigned herself to do something she rarely did— put her hair in a ponytail. Lost in her thoughts, she mindlessly removed the scrunchie from around her wrist and tied her hair back. She hated to clip the wings of her beautiful, large hair, but sometimes she did have to make sacrifices for the sake of being able to see.
In the cemetery, Miss Holliday stood alone (always alone); surrounded by fog, a layer of morning dew coating the grass. Miss Holliday stared listlessly at a tombstone in front of her. She couldn’t rip her eyes from the name, Edith Elwood, etched into the old, weatherbeaten stone. Her vision blurred slightly as her eyes welled with tears, her nose stinging both with emotion and the chill of the wind. The name— her name— was barely legible on the worn stone, almost fully covered in moss. She squinted, barely making out the words of her epitaph.
She could really only decipher it because she had the words memorized by now. Countless times she’d rolled them around in her head, mulling over the words and feeling out every possible interpretation. It still wasn’t very helpful with her grief, though. She sighed, unsatisfied. Edith’s epitaph seemed so lifeless compared to her once vivacious best friend. It felt so hollow, fell so flat. They should have done more, wrote more. Until the words really described her friend. She yearned for real tangible reminders of her radiance, and all she got was “beloved daughter, student, and friend.” She was sick of seeing all the same, vague epitaphs that wholly amounted to nothing; and it hurt to see it applied to someone she loved dearly. Loves dearly.
“This person was loved” is a profound go-to for describing the life of someone now deceased, to be sure; but to Miss Holliday, it came across only as a mockery. Of course Edith was loved. But what of her kindness? Her patience? Her stubbornness? Her sense of humor? Her competitive nature? Her contagious smile?
She sighed. It had been so long. She missed her friend. All the centuries of aching caught up to her at this very moment. The yearning had grown teeth and now it ate her alive. And all she had to protect herself with was that stupid epitaph.
She sighed again, more forcefully now. She stared down at her friend’s tombstone, mulling the words of the epitaph over once more, simply for the routine of it. Beloved daughter, student, and friend. That simple, borderline meaningless statement said nothing about Edith’s endless supply of love, of her insights that always cut to the bone. Edith was a force of nature. She understood things in a way that no one else had. She was incredibly intelligent and loved with everything she had to give. She was sweet and effervescent, but brooding and mysterious when she wanted to be. She always knew just what to say, and could tactfully make light of things when it was needed. Or, alternatively, she could be genuine and gentle in a heartfelt conversation, if that was what you needed.
Miss Holliday shook her head to herself, frustrated. Even thinking these words, they still seemed to fall so flat. It wasn’t enough. She didn’t know if she’d ever find the words to accurately describe Edith for the full person she was.
She remembered the love they shared. The conversation, laughs, and casual touches they exchanged. The comfortable silence, the quiet reassurance, the endless love. The unique connection they had fostered since childhood. Not a single day would pass where Miss Holliday would not think of her dear friend, wishing she were here. Even still, after all these years (almost two centuries, at this point), Miss Holliday struggled to find sufficient words to describe her.
But she knew it would be a useless endeavor anyway. No amount of words could describe Edith’s radiance. Oh, how Miss Holliday missed her, heart aching for her poor best friend.
She remembered the day Edith had changed her world, her entire perspective, on just another normal day. She showed her that she could find a new sense of identity, one not forced upon her by others, but chosen of her own will. All in a single conversation. It was, as was the rest of their friendship, revolutionary. She smiled at the memory and let it wash over her, much like the waves of tears rolling down her cheeks. Tears that went ignored as she sank into reminiscence.
Originally, Miss Holliday had a name she despised. It was a name that did not fit her. It was a common male name, which she later came to realize was the source of her discomfort. It may have taken her a while to figure out she was transgender, but she quite literally had all the time in the world. And now she knew the truth, no matter what she used to be perceived as.
Even before she realized she was a woman, she’d always hated her name. Its masculinity felt wrong her whole life, long before she figured things out. Not to mention, the name connected her to her family, people she would rather not associate herself with.
It had been so long, she couldn’t even remember what her original name was. That made her a lot happier than she’d have thought.
She smiled softly as she recalled the fateful evening when she first decided to change her name. Revolutionary. She didn’t know it at the time, but soon it would become a very familiar process, one that would repeat in an endless cycle.
She and Edith had gone for their daily walk in the woods, and she’d been complaining once again about how much she hated her name. Edith then suggested something so unprecedented, a solution that Miss Holliday had never thought of before.
“If the name bothers you so, why not change it?” She’d asked.
The question rendered Miss Holliday utterly speechless. The thought had never occurred to her before. She didn’t even know that was something you could do. Her chest warmed. As soon as it was spoken aloud, she knew it was the right move to make. It felt like such a relief and they hadn’t even talked it out yet.
“Woah,” she replied, breathless at the suggestion, “I think you’re right! Problem is, I don’t know what to change it to." She smiled, playfully asking, "What do you think, dear Edith? What name would suit me?”
Edith smiled, tilting her head to better examine her facial features. Miss Holliday felt a bit uncomfortable under the scrutiny— it usually wasn’t safe for such attention to be brought to her— but her pulse slowed as she reminded herself that Edith was her friend. Her closest friend. She was safe with her. After a moment, she finally spoke, offering a suggestion, “Hmm, how about William?”
At the name, Miss Holliday recoiled, “Oh goodness, no. Does it not sound too…” she trailed off, searching for the right word, “serious?”
Edith smiled, shaking her head amusedly, “Okay, not that then.” After a moment of silence while she brainstormed, she spoke up again, “Okay, how about James?” she suggested, only for Miss Holliday to firmly shake her head. And so Edith continued, suggesting name after name, each attempt unsuccessful.
Miss Holliday felt a little bad for disliking all of Edith’s suggestions so far, but what was she to do? None of them felt right. She hated the thought of actually using any of those names. (In retrospect, she’d realized it was because she was not a man; of course a man’s name wouldn’t feel quite right.) Besides, Edith didn’t seem to mind. If anything, as time passed and all the common names were denied, she seemed to be having fun coming up with strange and obscure ones.
But, even with the handicap of only considering male names, Edith was able to come up with a name that felt pretty androgynous to a young Miss Holliday. Almost revolutionarily so.
“Holloman?” Edith asked, barely pausing before continuing— she had been at this for a while, and was now spouting any obscure name (or combination of sounds) she could come up with and speaking them into existence— “Leopold-”
“Wait!” Miss Holliday yelled, cutting her off. She smiled, tentatively. “Holloman. Hollllloman. Holloman, HOLLOMAN!” she spoke, experimenting. She focused on the feeling of how the sounds rolled off her tongue, ignoring Edith’s giggling.
After a bit of processing, a young and beaming Miss Holliday nodded crisply, decisively.
Then, just as Edith was about to ask for her thoughts, she… ran away?
“Hey! Come back here!! How could you leave me?! Traitor!!” Edith yelled after her, sprinting and trying to catch up. Miss Holliday laughed loudly in response, a joyful, free sound. She was already half out of breath, but still she ran.
Eventually, as Miss Holliday’s movements grew lethargic and she began to feel that maybe she was a little out of shape, her destination appeared. Her pace slowed, finally allowing Edith to catch up with her, and they walked the remainder of the way in silence— Miss Holliday's silence for joy, and Edith's for anticipation. The only sound to be heard was the forest, and the two of them heaving for breath after their sprint.
Only when Miss Holliday stopped completely, still struggling to catch her breath, did a similarly heaving Edith demand an explanation— something she only managed between heavy breaths.
“Hey!” she said, pausing to gasp for air, “What was that for!? We might’ve-” she stopped again to breathe, then continued, “We might’ve gotten in trouble!”
Smacking her gently on the forearm, she continued, “You know how quickly the…” she paused, lowering her voice, “witch… allegations spread! We looked like we had gone mad!” At that, Miss Holliday giggled slightly.
Edith then turned to fully face her friend, grabbing her forearm, trying to read her to figure out any possible reason for doing this, “I mean, and it’s not even just that! A guy and a girl seen running after one another? Rumors spread quickly here and nothing good can come from that!”
Miss Holliday, who also had only just recovered from her run, shook her head lightly, “Yes. Yes, you’re right, I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful next time. I-” she paused, trying to find a way to explain herself, “I wasn’t thinking clearly, I had to come here!”
She moved, turning away from Edith, who let go of her arm. She looked down into the water of the Nantucket Channel, staring at her reflection.
“Look!” she said, pointing at herself.
“Holloman. Holloman,” she repeated quietly to herself. Something in her felt alive in a way she had never experienced before.
Edith looked down too, looking at her friend’s reflection. She smiled softly, “I think it suits you,” she said kindly, making her friend smile brightly.
Miss Holliday paused before responding, her chest growing warm again, “I think… I think I do too. Something feels… I don’t know. It feels good. I do feel slightly conflicted, though.”
Edith could sense her turmoil, so she took her hand again, asking, “What is it? What’s the problem?”
Miss Holliday smiled gratefully at her friend, then turned back to face herself. “I like Holloman. But.. maybe.. Holly for short? Holly feels better. What do you think?”
Edith— a little disconcerted by how feminine the name sounded, but mainly happy that her friend found a name she preferred— quickly nodded, “Sure! I’m happy for you, Holly!”
At the first use of her new name, her new identity, Holly could not contain her joy.
Giggling, she spoke, smiling widely and striking a pose, “That’s me, Holly Holloman Waylon! And don’t you forget it!” At Edith’s giggle, she continued in her best impression of the notorious town gossip, Amidon Reynolds, “Now, I don't mean to talk out of turn, but did you hear about the vandalism of the Nantucket Bridge? Apparently some of our finest youths have been engaging in illegal acts behind our backs! Yes, including the Waylon boy!"
After a pause, Edith spoke with a smirk, "That sounds fun! Wanna scratch our names onto the Nantucket Bridge?"
At this, they lost it, devolving into complete laughter, once again wheezing for breath.
At the memory, Miss Holliday smiled brightly. That was a fond moment, one she held dearly. She desperately missed the nonsensical shenanigans they used to get up to.
It wasn’t just the silliness and jokes, though. In the midst of routine, Edith had given her a new name. A new birth. A new likeness to live up to. Their daily walks were always a great time, but that day had been especially significant. Her name. She had given her her name. A likeness she still clung to even all this time later.
She reached up, wiping at her face wet with tears. Miss Holliday missed Edith deeply. She had been her best friend, the most important connection in her life. When she died, Miss Holliday grieved long and hard. And, as much as she hated to acknowledge it, she still wasn’t done grieving, almost two centuries later.
Some days were harder than others. Some days, her loss hit Miss Holliday full force and she had to take a while to sit with her emotions. And it wasn’t just Edith. All the people she had lost, all the lifetimes she’d lived. She grieved it all.
The main trigger for these feelings, these memories, was her resets. In them, she came back as someone new, waving goodbye to all the people she met and progress she made in her previous lifetime. Through her resets, she came back, starting anew. But still, she could not help but grieve the connections she had. Of course she grieved the connections she had. New ones would never be the same, even if they were with the same people.
She does try to avoid getting close with the same people multiple resets in a row, however. It tends to bring about complicated feelings in the other person. (And in her. But she liked to pretend it was solely for the sake of others).
Of course, she was only human. She was a witch, but she was also painfully human. Sometimes that just wasn’t how it ended up working out. Sometimes she couldn’t help but rebuild a new connection with someone from a previous lifetime, someone already dear to her, even if they didn’t know it yet.
But, either way, she always made it a point to take time after every reset to reflect on the lives she touched and those that touched her in return, as well as all of her previous lives. And alongside those feelings, of course, came a metric ton of yearning for her childhood friends, most especially Edith.
She tried to visit her grave regularly and talk to her, catch her up on the things going on in her life and make jokes and imagine her laughing back. Imagine her actually retaining the stories she told, rather than forgetting instantly.
And it wasn’t just Edith. Back in her youth, Miss Holliday had a group of friends. They all had met each other as children, becoming fast lifelong friends.
Miss Holliday really missed their little ragtag group of misfits.
She liked to visit the Hatchetfield cemetery to check up on all her old buddies, remind them that she hadn’t forgotten them, even if the rest of the world had.
Truthfully, though, sometimes she worried that she had forgotten. Memory was a fickle thing. Who was to say she remembered everything correctly? Who was to say she remembered at all?
It had been almost two centuries or so since. There was no telling how many details were lost to time at this point.
One of Miss Holliday’s greatest fears was to forget. She almost didn’t dare to even pose the question. She didn’t want to speak to the possibility that she could forget.
She had to remember. If she didn’t, who would?
She tried to think back on her youth, her time with Edith and the rest of her friends.
Oh, the adventures they’d had. She smiled softly as she recalled a particular day in the woods they had shared.
The group of friends were on a mission. They wandered the Witchwood, collecting sticks, rocks, and leaves for their attempt at building a house. Not a house really, just a shelter for an injured shrew they’d found while playing.
It was larger than they’d expected, leading them to think it was a mole at first. After close examination, however— and Eloise’s expertise— they realized it was, in fact, a shrew. They took pity on the poor dear and decided their next mission as a group would be to make a shelter for him to stay in until he recovered. They named him Chestnut, and everyone loved him already. They found small nuts or berries around, checking with Eloise that shrews could eat them, before feeding him. Soon enough, Eloise was left on Chestnut-watching duty while everyone else searched for building materials. She cooed over the little guy, making light conversation (though she was really only talking to herself) as they waited for everyone to return with materials.
To mark their base camp, she made a circle using rocks and put a stick in the ground— that was their flag, even if it was just a naked flagpole at the moment. With the Chestnut crisis and their previous (equally perilous) adventures, they hadn’t had the time to create a group flag yet.
Miss Holliday was the first to emerge from the woods, approaching their base with arms full of sticks, rocks, grass, and leaves. She’d even found a few acorns and a single chestnut that she’d stashed away in her pocket, a score she was particularly proud of. Eloise smiled at her and they made small talk as she added her finds to the center of the rock circle, the beginnings of what would become their pile of supplies.
Miss Holliday took a short break, chatting with Eloise and cooing over Chestnut, when Josephine emerged from the woods, carefully holding long bark pieces that would work perfectly for their roof. Soon after Josephine, Florence arrived, hands and dress covered in mud. The other girls laughed at Florence’s poor ruined dress, asking her if she had an impromptu dirt-ball fight in the woods (“It’s like a snowball fight, but dirt!” Eloise explained, to a response of chuckles from Miss Holliday and Josephine and an exasperated yet rather fond shaking head from Florence).
They then moved on to wonder what was taking Clara and Edith so long to return. Florence half-joked that Clara had gotten lost, that she was too busy with her head in the clouds to take note of her surroundings, but everyone brushed her comment off. They’d all explored the woods like this before and been perfectly fine, so they were sure Clara knew what she was doing, even if she was the youngest of the group. Big sisters were bound by law to make fun of their little sisters, it seemed. They were all used to it, and those that had siblings related to the dynamic in some ways. Eventually, it was decided that while Clara and Edith were still out in the woods gathering materials, the other girls would stay at their home base and use the time as a short break.
Miss Holliday, Eloise, Josephine, and Florence sat near the stone circle (dirtying their clothes even further), chatting and giggling. Miss Holliday took Chestnut from Eloise, petting him softly and telling him all about the group’s endeavor while the others conversed.
“Hello there, little Chestnut! I’m sorry you’re injured, but soon my friends and I will have a grand mansion built just for you! ‘N you can stay there as you heal! We’ll leave you a nice large stockpile of food, okay? That way you won’t even have to worry about hunting for yourself! Leave it all to us, we’ll take great care of you.”
Then, Clara appeared, smiling at the group in the small clearing. She held fistfuls of grass and a few tree branches, grinning victoriously. She deposited her finds in the pile of other materials and sat with the others, asking excitedly about what she missed.
After another moment of nice conversation, they agreed that one more person should go get a few more materials and that, coupled with Edith’s finds, should give them enough to start building. Miss Holliday volunteered, handing Chestnut to an eager Josephine and disappearing back into the woods.
As she wandered around, she ran into Edith, who had a collection of sticks that were all roughly the same shape. Miss Holliday handed her the few wishbone shaped sticks she’d found and told her to head back to base camp.
Miss Holliday hummed to herself (an old hymn her family taught her), collecting some final materials, things she’d noticed had been lacking in their pile, before beginning to make her way back to base camp, too.
She strolled leisurely, hands and heart full. She was only half paying attention to where she was going— following the path she was sure led back to her friends— but mainly distracted by her thoughts. She was really happy. She loved spending time with her girls. They made life seem so meaningful.
She must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere, though, because suddenly she noticed she was in a much darker part of the woods.
The brush seemed so dense where it had just been manageable, and she couldn’t see far through the thick fog that seemingly materialized out of nowhere. Suddenly, the woods felt more… Alive. Malicious. Active in ways that she couldn’t quite pinpoint. She could sense the shift, but she couldn’t identify what exactly had changed.
Her ears perked up and she stilled, every muscle growing tense, controlled. She heard whispers, but was only able to catch fragments of what the woods seemed to mutter.
“-kotho,” she heard, softly echoing from behind, breathy and whispering. It felt melodic, somehow, resonant; despite the whisper itself holding no note. She whipped around, but the darkness only thickened, engulfing her further. She couldn’t see a thing, not even her own hand as she waved it in front of her face. Her heart began to race as she panicked, the menacing sound of strange whispered words surrounding her. She caught a fleeting, wispy, “blik—tep,” coming from above. It felt sharp, grating. As if it scraped at her eardrums despite the low volume of the whisper.
Calm down, she told herself. Why was she panicking? Hatchetfield was her home. She’d lived by the Witchwood all her life, and the woods never hurt her before, she reminded herself. There was probably a normal explanation for this. But she’d never felt the woods so sinister before. Miss Holliday didn’t know what changed, but for the first time in her life she felt in danger in the woods— the place that was her home, playground, and happy picnic spot.
She reassured herself again and again, I’ll be fine. I’m just hearing things. I’m just tired. It’s okay. Breathe.
As she tried to breathe, she realized she had a pounding headache. Stabbing pains reverberated through her skull, as if something were gnawing on her brain.
A sharp “t’noy, t’noy, t’noy-” sound resonated, echoing from every direction, making her head spin. Disoriented, she collapsed, kneeling in the grass. Her knees ached from the impact, but it didn’t hold a candle to her pounding head, which hurt so bad she felt it might explode. She clutched desperately at it, hoping to alleviate the pain. She felt for sure that her head would split in two.
She tried to steady her breathing, tell herself that everything was going to be fine, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it. A babbling, “-raxis, -raXIS, -RAXIS,” built volume with every repetition, the atmosphere parroting the sound as fog reached into her lungs, suffocating her. She had almost reached her limit. Tears streaming down her face, she leaned forward, head tucked against her thighs, desperately clutching at her ears. Her nails dug painfully against her skin, but she didn’t care. Anything to make it stop.
“What’s-,” she began, before she was interrupted by a biting sound, “nibblen-”
She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t see. Her brain was being feasted on. Finally, despairing, she heard a booming, “wiggog wiggog y’WRATH!”
She sobbed loudly, scratching at her head, a desperate attempt to counteract her pounding headache, her sore eardrums. It didn’t work, but instinctually she tried. The chant of strange words that filled her with dread grew steadier, until she could make out the whole thing.
“POKOTHO, BLIKLOTEP, T’NOY KARAXIS, NIBBLENEPHIM, WIGGOG WIGGOG Y’WRATH.”
At the sound of the full chant, she was paralyzed, whether by fear or outside forces she couldn’t say. It was so loud and kept repeating until she was filled with a despair so deep she felt as if it had come from the universe itself. There she sat, eyes widened, body motionless but tensed in every muscle. Her body burned with the ache of a workout, her head pounding with the noise, throbbing in time with every chant. She couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Nothing felt real.
She tried to focus on the grass beneath her, ground herself back into the present moment. Shakily, sluggishly, she removed her hands from her head, trying instead to clutch, scratch, and pull at the grass. But as her fingers brushed the grass, she felt something odd. Not only were her hands suddenly wet, her squeezing bursting liquid right in her palms, but beneath her, the ground itself pulsed and squirmed in a strange rhythm. She looked down in horror, watching terrified yet utterly helpless as the blades of grass moved so unsettlingly. Then, what little light that was left caught on it, and she realized that it was no longer grass, but instead a thousand writhing maggots. She felt them squirming against her legs— some even crawling up and on her, the ground oozing and pulsating as if the very earth was breathing. They began to consume her, swallowing her legs and arms, now parading up her torso. Once again, her body refused her desperate bids for it to move. Her vision tinged with a bright green— the green of a Granny Smith apple— and when she glanced up she could’ve sworn she caught a split second of tentacles reaching for her. But the next moment, they were gone. Maybe she had hallucinated it. A trick of the minimal light. The maggots, climbing all over her, finally reached her face, covering her completely. She couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.
A truly horrifying laugh echoed from around her, “hehehe HIC, hehehe HIC, hehehe HIC,” then a separate voice, the voice of the woods shouted, almost reverentially, “WIGGOG WIGGOG Y’WRATH!!”
Finally reaching her limit, the dizziness took over. Miss Holliday passed out on the forest floor, body now completely covered in wriggling maggots.
—
“——??” She heard a voice. A familiar one. What was happening?
“——, are you okay?”
She lifted her head slightly, the light making her head pound.
Wait. Was that.. “‘dith?”
She felt a hand on her shoulder, a concerned voice. “——. What happened? Are you injured?”
She shook her head slightly, trying to shake off the disorientation, but it only served to intensify her headache. She spoke, rasping, “Edith? What’s going on?”
“You’re in the Witchwood, dear. Did you faint?”
Huh? “The Witchwood?” she asked, then took a look at her surroundings. She was surrounded by trees, birds, and a gentle breeze. And her friend, worriedly standing over her, her expression anxious. Everything seemed fine, why exactly had her blood run cold with mortal terror again?
Maggots. Her heart rate spiked once again, and she snapped her gaze to the ground. Thankfully, it was grass once more. She wanted to throw up as she remembered the writhing against her; slimy wriggling forms covering her body, clouding her vision, and stealing the very breath from her lungs. She shuddered. Her body froze again at the memory.
“‘dith, I don’t feel good,” she said, shifting to hug her knees. Edith nodded, furrowing her brows further, “Yeah, you don’t look so good. Would you like me to walk you home?”
At that, Miss Holliday shook her head. “No, no, ‘m fine. We gotta… Chestnut…”
Edith giggled slightly, gently smacking her friend’s shoulder. “Come on, Chestnut will be fine. The girls and I can finish building his shelter, you need to get home and rest. And maybe go see a healer.”
Miss Holliday said nothing, instead staring at the ground.
Edith touched her arm, grabbing her attention, “Hey. What happened? I see you fainted, but what led to it? It’s not like you to faint for no reason.”
Miss Holliday shook her head again, but it didn’t seem to clear her mind any further. She tried to remember, “I remember… I was just walking. Then… maggots. Loud sounds. Couldn’t move. A tentacle? I don’t know, Edith. Ugh, my head hurts.”
Edith looked shocked, then even more worried than before. “Alright, let’s get you home. You’re really not well. Maybe your parents can help?”
“No!” she shouted immediately, before realizing her mistake. She amended, “They… they wouldn’t believe me. We can tell them I’m sick, but that’s all.”
Edith nodded reluctantly, “You don’t think they’d be able to help? This sounds… weird, and they’re weird, right? Like, they do weird ritual stuff?”
“Edith!” Miss Holliday snapped, the yelling only worsening her headache, “Be quiet! You cannot blurt that so freely! What if someone had heard?”
Edith side-eyed her, gesturing to the empty woods around them, “Who? A bird? We’re in the woods.”
Miss Holliday sighed, “Yes, but you never know if anyone else could be around. Lots of places to hide around here.”
She paused, a pang of guilt hitting her. She took her friend’s hand apologetically, “Ugh. Sorry for snapping. It’s just, my head is pounding and I’m scared and cold. And… that secret must remain a secret. ‘Kay?”
Edith nodded, but the worry did not leave her expression, “Yeah, I get it. Let’s just get you home.” She stopped, thinking, then added, “And consider telling your parents.”
Miss Holliday groaned, but didn’t argue. Edith pulled gently on her hand, urging her up. “C’mon, can you stand? Let’s go tell the girls what’s going on.”
Edith helped her up, holding her steady when the intense vertigo hit her. Once the wave passed, she stood tall, smiling and half-joking, “Florence will be shocked; it wasn’t Clara who got lost in the woods, but me.”
Edith laughed, taken aback, “What? If anything, Florence is the one who’s directionally challenged!”
At that, Miss Holliday snorted, “Now that is very true. But no, I suppose you were not there for that, were you?” At Edith’s shake of a head, she continued, “Earlier, Flo joked that Clara got lost and that’s what took her so long. Turns out it was me who got lost all along!”
Edith smiled softly, nodding. Then, her head cocked as something occurred to her. “Really? But look around! You weren’t really lost, were you? We’ve been to this section of the woods a million times!”
Miss Holliday finally looked around, realizing. She was met with a completely familiar part of the woods, and she knew exactly how to get back to their home base from here.
Oh. She hadn’t been lost after all. But why had the woods looked so unfamiliar before? It was as if that place from before was a whole different world. Everything was just as she would’ve thought. So, why, then, had everything seemed so unfamiliar? So menacing? Why did she have the sinking suspicion that it had something to do with her family?
She shook her head, escaping that train of thought. She simply responded with, “Oh.” Edith had a strange look on her face, one Miss Holliday couldn’t read.
At this, Miss Holliday explained, “Before, it looked… Different.” She paused, steadying her breathing, “Please tell me you believe me, Edith. It was scary.”
Edith took a deep breath, nodding. “Yeah, it sounds scary. I believe you, it’s just… strange.” Miss Holliday nodded. She knew how strange it was.
"Good." she replied. "But you cannot tell anyone of this, Edith, I'm serious."
Edith nodded, raising her hands in surrender. Miss Holliday nodded again, this time in acceptance.
From there, a comfortable silence descended on them, Miss Holliday trying to grapple with the implications of the incident, and Edith mentally cataloguing her friend’s symptoms to try to figure out what was happening to her.
Together, they made their way back to the girls, occasionally chatting quietly to distract themselves from the elephant in the room— Miss Holliday’s terrifying experience.
When they made it back to their base camp, all her friends were about shaking from fright. Josephine and Florence held a softly crying Eloise, who was prone to bouts of intense anxiety. Miss Holliday sighed, feeling guilty for worrying her friends so. She rushed forward, hugging Eloise and apologizing. “I’m okay, dear Eloise, don’t worry.” Eloise relaxed in her arms, thanking her for coming back safe. Her friends gave her a moment to reassure Eloise, but then gave in and began bombarding her with questions. She didn’t feel like she had been gone that long, but then again she wasn’t quite sure her perception of time was accurate while her head was being ripped in two and her body buried beneath maggots.
Clara shot up, hands on her hips. Asking where she had been, what happened, what took so long. All the questions made her head hurt worse, so she released Eloise and gestured for Edith to explain. Once the cover story was told, each girl was understanding and concerned for their friend, deciding that Edith would walk her home and explain what happened to her parents. Now down to four, Clara, Eloise, Florence, and Josephine began construction on Chestnut’s shelter, a little dejected with worry for their friend.
Edith and Miss Holliday, on their way to her house, continued their mindless chatter. As the walk progressed, Miss Holliday began to feel a little better. When they finally made it back to her house, though, she was so exhausted. She didn’t bother saying a word to her family, passing all of them on her way to bed. Edith expected this, however, and explained everything to her concerned parents. She then gave her well wishes to Miss Holliday and said goodbye, heading back to her other friends.
Miss Holliday, back in the present, standing alone in the cemetery, smiled softly, ignoring her tears. She cherished those moments. At the time, it was upsetting and terrifying, but now she reveled in the memory of the friendship she’d shared with her girls. The sour memory turned sweet in the wake of her friends' absences. It also helped that she now had the full context, and understood what had happened to her that day in the woods.
Regardless, though, she missed her friends deeply. Edith, her best friend in all the world. Josephine, bold, honest, creative Josephine. Florence, athletic, strong, kind-hearted Flo. Clara, funny, sweet, resourceful Clara. Eloise, quiet, whimsical, organized Eloise. She missed them so. She wondered what they would think of her if they met her today. She tried not to think about how they wouldn’t remember her. Whether her friends were alive or dead, she was destined to be alone regardless. Still in front of Edith’s grave, she sank into a squat, holding her head in her hands as she sobbed.
I miss you, Edith, she thought, willing her words to sink into the dirt and settle in Edith’s bones.
This was a familiar process, one she had repeated countless times throughout all her lives, but that didn’t take away its bite. Every time she began a new life, she came back to this cemetery to grieve. It hurt just as bad every time. She wanted to scream, claw up the grass and beg her friend to answer her call. She just wanted to see her one more time. It was not fair for Edith to be reduced to memories, only alive in the context of others’ hippocampi. She would never exist in her own right again, confined to short reminiscent moments from times long past. Miss Holliday could only hold so much memory. Her heart broke as she found herself forgetting what Edith looked like. She remembered her dark skin, her pretty hair that she had to fight for. Her kind, brown eyes. She remembered what her hand felt like in hers, the ghost of the touch haunting her. She remembered her radiant smile. But she forgot so many things. Picturing her in her mind, it was like fog obscured portions of her vision, rendering certain features lost to time. She hated that photography wasn’t more widespread at the time. She would do almost anything to have a real picture of her friend.
Sinking even lower from her squat, she sat. She ran her fingers over the stone of the cobbled path, using the texture to ground herself as she stared at her lap. She was fully aware of how ridiculous she looked, but in the face of her grief, she was beyond caring about such frivolities. There, she cried until she couldn’t anymore. She had no idea how much time passed as she sat there, pondering all that had been. Everything she'd had in every little life she'd lived. This was one of the few moments she let herself feel the weight of it all; everything she'd ever had and lost. She cried into her hands, her shirt, and even her lap at one point, folded over completely in her despair. Finally, when she could cry no more, she gently wiped her face with her similarly soaked hands. Finally, she stood up again, listless and wobbly. She stared numbly at her dead friend’s tombstone, a black hole of emotion festering in her chest.
That epitaph mocked her. She had half a mind to scratch a better one into the stone herself.
Taking a deep breath, she brought both her hands up to her face again, rubbing at the rapidly drying tear stains. She took another deep breath, focusing on the feeling of the cool morning air. She heard the chirpings of small birds, the soft breeze gently rustling the trees. She rubbed the fabric of her jean jacket, the feel of the material grounding her. She blew a kiss to her friend, told her she loved her with a raspy voice. Then she began to walk.
She visited the graves of her other childhood friends: Josephine, Florence, Eloise, and Clara. She spent a few moments at each of their graves, her mind too exhausted to do anything other than stare. She told each of them she loved them, then continued walking. This time, she wasn’t walking anywhere in particular, just wandering to clear her mind.
As she looked over the graves of the people of Hatchetfield, she found herself reminiscing on her lives through time. She did her best to avoid any memories of her childhood— she just couldn’t handle those at the moment. Instead, she thought of her adult lives, the many jobs she’d had and friends she’d made over the course of her resets.
Her legs ached as she continued to wander, the afternoon sun beginning to warm her uncomfortably, but the ever-present breeze calming her in a cooling hug. How long had she been here? Wandering the graveyard like a ghost?
She felt like a ghost. Relentlessly haunting Hatchetfield, cursed to remember. She took a deep breath.
Her reflection on previous lives was bittersweet. She thought over the many eras, flipping through some of her favorites, and trying to ignore some of the worse ones.
As she thought of her iconic pop star era, she couldn’t help but start beaming. She reached for the familiar sound of her favorite song, iconic pop hit “Run Away With Me,” and after some effort, was able to fully remember it. Immediately, she began to hum. Then muscle memory kicked in, and she found herself full-out singing the entire song. She’d missed that catchy little tune. It felt so good, feeling the familiar vibrations in her vocal chords, the rhythm in her bones, in her heartbeat. She heard the ghost of the crowd’s roar, the freedom of letting loose. She had been on top of the world. She held her imaginary mic, winking at her adoring audience. God, this was exhilarating. Oh, how she’d missed this feeling.
She mellowed out after she finished her song. She still remembered the way Duke had looked at her when she performed onstage at the Honey Festival. She wished to sing it to him. Again and again and again and again. Maybe he’d remember one of them. A one in a million chance means you must try a million times. Miss Holliday would try a million times. Maybe she would finally get her one success someday.
She thought of Duke, desperately. An image flashed in her mind— in the paddle boat, as they watched the fireworks, Duke gazing at her with hearts in his eyes. The sheer adoration in his expression, that unbridled softness. He was completely at ease with her. She flinched at the thought. The wound was still too fresh. She missed him. She hoped he was doing okay. She was sorry. God, she was so sorry. She wanted to hold him, tell him everything.
She wanted a lot of things.
All of a sudden, a familiar voice startled her out of her melancholy reverie, stopping her in her tracks, “Oh, hi! Sorry, didn’t realize anyone else was here.”
Miss Holliday jumped and her heart nearly stopped. Again.
She couldn’t believe her eyes.
“Duke? What’re you doing here?”
Duke froze, utterly perplexed, “How’d you-”
Realizing her mistake, Miss Holliday internally cursed. She needed to come up with a story, and fast, before she ruined everything.
She rushed to interrupt, “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
She pointed down, at the grave just behind Duke, “Douglas Keane Senior. You look a lot like him. Sorry. He’s been on my mind… You must be his son, right?”
Duke relaxed a little more, but his guard was still raised. At his confused stare, she continued, “Sorry, I’m not making much sense, am I? Let me start over.”
She stepped closer to Duke, extending her hand for a handshake. “Hiya Duke, I’m Miss Holliday. I used to live here, a long time ago. Doug was an… acquaintance. Coworker, at first. We lost touch after I left. Seeing you…” She trailed off, “Just surprised me, ‘s all. You look a lot like him, so I figured it was you ‘cuz he used to talk about you. He’d had you for a while, but I never got the chance to meet you. You came out shortly before I left Hatchetfield, if I remember correctly.” Realizing how this could be taken, she quickly added, “Don’t worry, I’m trans too. I was glad to see he accepted you.”
Duke hesitantly nodded, giving Miss Holliday’s hand a gentle shake. She did her best to ignore her heart fluttering at the feeling of his hand in hers. She desperately hoped her cheeks hadn’t reddened. Maybe she could get away with blaming it on the cold.
She wished she could just hold him again, like nothing had happened.
She ignored that thought.
She took the moment to survey him, and what she saw was fairly worrying. His hair was disheveled and his eyes were red, as if he had been crying for a long time. He also sported dark eyebags, and wore a hoodie and shorts. Shorts.
In autumn.
In Hatchetfield, Michigan.
He looked so weary. She could tell he was really struggling. She knew he’d take her loss hard, but it hurt worse than she imagined to see the effects so plainly on his face. He looked… God, he looked broken.
Duke nodded again, pensive, “Doug, huh? Sounds about right. Those first few years after I came out, he was so proud to finally have a son. He’d always wanted a son. When I came out, he was elated. As time passed, though, that changed. He stopped caring ‘bout me when he found I had no interest in participating in his toxic masculinity.” A pause. He stared off into space. But he soon seemed to realize where he was again, changing the subject, “Oh, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. He was your friend. Anyway. How’d you know him?”
She sighed, empathizing and ignoring his apology, “I’m sorry. I thought he’d been fully supportive. That blows.” He nodded, tears brimming in his eyes, and she decided to quickly move on. She looked off into the distance, pretending to reminisce, then continued, “Anyway, I met him at my old job. I was pretty young at the time. Y’know, he was the sheriff, and the organization I worked at would sometimes work with the HFPD. I liked him well enough, but if he ever got to talkin’ ‘bout his Opinions on things, usually political, I always found an excuse to leave as soon as possible. It’s why I was so pleasantly surprised to see that he embraced having a trans son. He was nice enough to me, but his personal beliefs were certainly bigoted. That guy haaated women. I found it real interesting when he was so accepting of you, honestly. But it makes sense now, seein' as he only wanted you to participate in his archaic ‘man rituals.’”
She paused, thinking it over, “Y’know, actually I’m real glad the apple fell far from the tree in that way. You seem like a pretty stand-up guy, Duke,” she said, smiling softly.
Was that a weird thing to say? She didn’t know. She hoped he got what she meant anyway.
He smiled shyly, shrugging, “Eh, I try. You seem nice enough too, I hope he never tried to take advantage of your kindness.”
She laughed, shaking her head, “Never in a million years would I let anybody take advantage of me. I’m just lil ol’ me, but that don’t mean I can’t stand my ground! I can be damn stubborn when I wanna be,” She joked, smiling.
He returned the smile, replying, “‘Kay, good! ‘M glad. He could be a real pain in the ass sometimes. Honestly, though, it was okay. I was an adult when I came out, which made things less… tense.” He paused, at a loss, “Anyway…” he continued, trailing off, trying desperately to change the subject. “To be honest, I don’t visit his grave so often. Or ever, really. I forgot where his plot of land was till you pointed it out. I’m here for someone else.”
Miss Holliday thanked her lucky stars that he didn’t seem to think she was acting a little too familiar, when suddenly a thought seemed to hit him. His demeanor shifted drastically, going from sad to absolute despair. Miss Holliday hoped it wasn't because of her. She couldn’t fool herself, though, no matter how badly she wanted to. She knew it was about her. She hated that it was about her.
She desperately wished she didn’t have to hurt him like this. She watched him deflate like a balloon and there was nothing she could do to comfort him. She hated it. She hated standing here and watching as his grief sucked the life out of him. She should leave him alone.
Yet there she stood, a cavern opening in her chest as she witnessed him grieve her. As she stood right in front of him.
She hated herself for it.
She paused, taking in his overall grief-stricken look, then asked softly, “Who ya visiting? Talkin’ may help.”
He startled a bit, her voice seeming to snap him out of his despair. The deep sadness was still present, but he attempted to mask it once more.
He smiled, bittersweet, “She was a, uh… a friend of mine. She died.” He stopped, expression glazing over once again, clouded with anguish. He looked down, brows furrowed as he stared at Miss Holloway’s tombstone (which was, unfortunately, positioned just behind where Miss Holliday stood). His eyes brimmed with tears, cheeks darkening.
He looked back up at Miss Holliday and smiled again, trying to hide his pain. His voice hoarse, he continued, “‘S kinda funny, actually, you remind me of her. Names are similar and everything.”
Miss Holliday smiled gently, half-heartedly replying, “That’s quite the coincidence.” She could barely muster up the energy to pretend. She just wanted to be with him. She wished things could be easier. She patted him gently on the shoulder, allowing her hand to linger a moment longer than necessary.
Her voice softened as she added sincerely, “I’m sorry. For your loss.”
He nodded, his now staring off into space, eyes welling with tears. She wished he’d look at her.
She wished he’d see it was her all along.
She ignored that thought.
She paused again, then allowed herself a major indulgence, “Y’know… it'd be nice to get to know you more, if you’d like? Seems like you could use a friend right now.”
He nodded again, trying to shake himself out of his grief-fueled trance. The sadness didn’t leave his eyes, but at least now he was looking at her.
Good, she thought, now, if only he could see.
He couldn’t help it, she knew. She knew he was going through the same pain she was. How could she not? He looked like he was going to fade away.
Her poor, sweet Duke.
He turned his head away from her, attempting to hide the tears that had finally begun to fall. Miss Holliday, concerned, took a step closer to him. She could almost feel her heart split in two as she watched him cry. She felt a deep, aching pain in her chest. She had to do something.
She took a chance, speaking softly, “Hey, Duke. Can I hug you?”
Surprised, he turned slightly, now facing her more. His desperate, yearning gaze told her all she needed to know, but she waited for his confirmation anyway.
He nodded crisply, like the movement took all his strength. As soon as his head tipped forward, Miss Holliday enveloped him in a soft, comforting embrace.
She still had to be mindful. To Duke, they had just met. She had to be careful, she reminded herself. She rubbed soft, easy circles into his back the way she knew soothed him.
“Duke, I’m so sorry. Wherever your friend may be, just know that she loves you more than you will ever know.”
At this, Duke’s hold on Miss Holliday tightened. He nodded into her shoulder, holding the comfort as close as possible while he cried. He shook violently, and Miss Holliday worried that he’d fall.
She allowed him a moment, before gently breaking the hug. She hated to do so, but she had a more pressing issue to attend to. He was going to collapse under the weight of his grief if they kept standing there.
She pulled back, resting her hands on his shoulders. She leveled her concerned gaze on him, making deliberate eye contact. “C’mon,” she muttered, “let’s go sit down.” He nodded, meeting her gaze for only a moment. She nodded back, glancing away to survey the graveyard. She moved her hands from his shoulders, instead guiding him by the elbow to the nearest bench. They sat together, closer than strangers would.
She rested her hand in the crook of his arm, giving him a moment. After a brief comfortable silence, she tapped the spot, gently coaxing his attention back to her. He looked back up at her, and she asked, “Would you like me to distract you, or would you just like me to listen?”
Miss Holloway knew he’d likely rather be distracted— but as Miss Holliday, a stranger— she knew it was best to ask.
He took a moment, considering. He spoke so quietly Miss Holliday had to lean in closer to understand him, “Distraction, please,” he whispered hoarsely. “Tell me ‘bout yourself.”
And so, Miss Holliday carefully began telling him everything she could about herself. It was sort of an arduous process— avoiding stories of previous lifetimes like the plague— so instead, she talked about things she was passionate about and what she enjoyed doing in her free time.
To her satisfaction, Duke stopped crying a few minutes into her verbal wandering. Her voice seemed to soothe him, much to her relief. After a while, he even began to softly ask questions and tell her a little about himself in turn.
From there, conversation became much easier for Miss Holliday. Instead of speaking around her past, she and Duke moved on to discussing more mundane things, life’s little joys, things that kept them going. All her focus shifted from verbally sidestepping the things she couldn’t talk about to just enjoying conversation with him again.
It was unbelievably nice. She’d missed him so much already.
After must have been hours of idle conversation, Duke seemed to be feeling better— he was telling her about his morning routine in a local coffee shop (the Java Chip). He explained how his morning had gone, mentioning a slight altercation that had occurred at the café, and Miss Holliday couldn't help herself.
“Really?” she teased, amused, “I wouldn’t have thought you as the type to start a confrontation!”
Playfully exasperated, Duke shot back, “What else could I have done! The guy was being creepy, I wanted to make sure she was okay!”
Miss Holliday laughed, shaking her head fondly, “I'm just teasin’ ya, Duke.”
Duke smiled, a little sheepishly, “Ah, ‘course. Although, Miss Holliday, I must say, it’s awfully presumptuous of you to think I wouldn’t be eager for confrontation. We've only just met, after all. For all you know, I could be full of surprises! And mysteries!”
Miss Holliday laughed genuinely at that, patting his arm, “Yes yes, of course. Surprises and mysteries, I’m sure.”
He nodded, half-exasperatedly, "Absolutely! You wouldn't know!"
She paused, pretending to genuinely consider it, then said, “Y’know what? I believe it! You totally seem like the type to keep secrets, real mysterious-like,” she teased. Barely able to contain her smile, she continued, “So much for being a stand-up guy!”
Having way too much fun now, she turned to face him fully and brought her hands up in two sideways Ls, perfectly framing his face. She hummed, musing, “Hmm, I’m picturing a long string of heists, maybe a criminal mastermind, but good? A Robin Hood type deal? I imagine now you’re on the run?” He burst out laughing, surprised— that seemed to be the last thing he’d expected her to say— and she could no longer contain herself. She dropped the act and laughed freely with him, playfully (but also gently) hitting his shoulder as they both laughed until their stomachs hurt.
When the laughter died down, Duke wiped the tears out of his eyes, sighing, “Whew! That was funny," he wheezed through his final bout of laughter. "Miss Holliday, you’re a real strange one, aren’t ya, darlin’?”
At the endearment, Miss Holloway- no, Holliday, froze.
Her breathing quickened. Her chest grew warm. Her heart beat so loudly she could’ve sworn it was audible.
A quiet, hopeful part of her wondered, Could he- does he remember, maybe?
She immediately quashed the thought. It wasn’t possible.
Her head spun, confused and lost and longing.
Duke, however, noticed her discomfort and immediately backtracked, cheeks and ears reddening, “Uh- I, uh-, sorry ‘bout that, Miss Holliday. I- really I don’t know why I said that… Just felt so…” he trailed off, searching for the right word. He took a breath.
Then, “Felt so natural. Felt… Right. Just kinda slipped out. But that’s no excuse, ‘m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I, uh, know we’re still basically strangers. I don’t mean to offend. I, just- You’re real cool, alright? You seem awesome, I wanna get to know you some more. If you’re comfortable with that, ‘course.”
Halfway through his nervous ramble, Miss Holliday felt the urge to interrupt him, tell him it was alright. It was what Miss Holloway would have done. But, as Miss Holliday, she paused. She wanted to see where he would go with this. She smiled fondly at him as he went on and on, finishing his tirade and nervously fidgeting with his fingers.
She giggled softly, placing her hand on his forearm, soothing, “Duke, relax. It’s okay. Y’know to be honest, I can’t say I dislike the endearment myself.” That was not what she should have said. If she’d learned anything from all her lives, it was that being direct is often the best way to go. Not like this, though. Anything but this. For his own good, she should leave him be. But a single glance back up at his blushing face hanging off her every word rendered all protests silent.
She was heavily embarrassed, but there was no going back now. It was too late for her. Once again, the cycle repeated. She pressed on, “Some may even say I quite like it, darlin’… Just… caught me off guard, I suppose.”
Her cheeks burning, she shifted her gaze down to his forearm, where her hand still rested. She looked at it, and deliberately let it sit there comfortably. She waited what felt like eons for him to respond, hoping desperately that she had read the signals correctly.
She could hear the giddy smile in his voice, “Oh- well. Um. That’s- that’s good! Okay then,” he said, quickly adding, “Darlin’,” excitement laced in his tone. She looked back up at him, making eye contact once again. He was blushing up a storm and she was sure she was too.
God, she would never get used to that starry-eyed look.
Just like the look he gave me as we watched the fireworks only a few days ago, her mind unhelpfully supplied.
She ignored that thought, immersing herself in the present instead. She admired his beautiful face, as it seemed he was doing with her. His kind eyes, his dark skin, his medium-length locs, his adorable freckles. The warmth in his gaze.
After a moment, she sighed light-heartedly, “Well, Duke, it was nice to meet you, but I’ve been out here all morning, and I may die if I don’t get some food in me soon.”
Duke chuckled, responding, “Heh, yeah, that’s fair. Go get some food! It was a real pleasure meeting you, Miss Holliday,” he said, still blushing.
She smiled so hard her cheeks hurt, speaking before she could stop herself, “Here. Ya got any paper?”
Duke shook his head, a little confused.
Miss Holliday shrugged, continuing, “Oh, well. I guess I’ll have to write it on your hand, then.” Duke, even more confused now, asked, “Wait, write what?” even as he offered his hand to her. She took a pen out of her pocket, winking, “You’ll see.” She took his hand, writing her phone number and a couple of doodles on his palm: a star, a heart, and a microphone. When she finished, Duke laughed giddily, and smiled big as they said their goodbyes.
Miss Holliday was sure that she’d made the wrong decision. But, well. She loved him. It was her wrong decision. One she would make (and had been making) again and again and again.
As she headed back to her 1987 Pontiac Firebird, she took a second to process what had just happened. She was definitely not supposed to see him again, not so soon after Miss Holloway’s untimely demise. But, this one wasn’t on her. Not fully, anyway. Fate, as it so often did, brought them together once more. She simply had to hope the joy of being together would be worth the agony in the end.
The ache within her had subsided slightly, soothed by the presence of her love. She was glad to have seen him again, in a selfish kind of way, but the oh-so familiar guilt crawled its way through her, twisting her stomach into a knot.
She opened the door to her beloved car, sitting in the driver’s seat. She did nothing but sit there for a while, too lost in her thoughts.
Duke. He was different this time. It hurt, but she supposed it made sense. Losing Miss Holloway had changed him.
Sometimes she wondered if he’d be unrecognizable to her one day. Twisted and changed by the force of his repeated grief over her, turned into someone entirely new. Would the new Duke still love her?
Questions to worry about later, she supposed. He loved her now.
Even despite her upset at the circumstances, she couldn’t wait to learn more about this version of Duke. She wanted to memorize everything about him, store every little thing in her mind for safekeeping. She would always have his fingerprints pressed into her heart long after he was gone.
Miss Holliday couldn’t imagine a world without him; didn’t want to even consider it.
She realized that losing Duke for good may very well be her final straw. She knew herself. She was selfish. She would undo everything, just so she wouldn’t have to live in a world without him.
But for now, she would enjoy his company, as much as she could get. She would savor it, cherish every moment she could get with him.
Taking a deep breath, breaking herself away from her thoughts, she started the car. After a morning (and afternoon) full of contemplation and intense emotion, she just wanted to go home. She’d make herself some eggs, then perhaps she’d write a song.